The Last First Move
by keru.m
Summary: Harm, bored at home on a Friday evening, gets a visit from an irate Mac. Time to turn on the charm.


Disclaimer: Don't own any of it.

A/N: Alright, alright, I admit. I find Harm's Peter Pan Syndrome/Jet jock facade/intense denial fascinating. And I like to poke it and see how it reacts. But all in the name of science, of course. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

**The Last First Move**

Harm entered his apartment and soaked in the familiar smell and feel of his domain. Finally. He dropped his briefcase and the stresses of the day by the door, taking a deep, invigorating breath. He threw his cover towards the hooks by the door. It landed perfectly on the center hook. Bull's eye. He threw his coat the same way. It landed in a heap on the floor. Darn. Harm bent down, picked up his coat and this time hung it himself before heading towards his room to change. What did he feel like doing tonight? The exciting possibilities of a Friday sailed through his eager, relaxed brain as he peeled of his uniform and hung it in the closet. Grab a drink with the guys, throw some darts, flirt with some women? Sounded good. But Sturgis was out on assignment. Keeter was never in town these days. Bud? Hmm, he mulled that thought over before discarding it. He didn't want to hear about Bud's domestic problems and triumphs. He wasn't in the mood to feel either envious that he was missing out on all that or relieved that he was missing out on all that. And Bud didn't have the makings of a wing man.

What else could he do? Take a ride in the corvette, blast some music, find some winding roads. But his baby needed a tune up first. An oil change. A wax. Some love. Maybe tomorrow. Yes, Harm decided as he pulled on his favourite black shirt and his most comfortable jeans, tomorrow he would give his prized possession some one-on-one attention. He headed towards the kitchen and poured himself some water before tackling the pile of mail that lay on the counter. He hadn't had time to touch it during the week. Picking up the first envelope on the pile, Harm considered the remainder of his options. He could stay home and play his guitar, which had been neglected of late anyways. He glanced at the envelope: bill. He placed it on the counter, to his left, and reached for the next envelope. But he didn't want to stay home. How pathetic. He was a man in his prime. Well, he amended as he placed another bill to his left, still in his prime. He reached yet again into the pile of envelopes, this time pulling out junk mail. He threw it in the bin. Maybe he could call Mac. Invite her to dinner. Throw in a dance. Woah. Emergency brakes, Rabb. Dance? With Mac? Was he insane. He might as well buy her a wedding ring and book a room in a maternity ward somewhere.

Time to get back to the point, he reminded himself as he continued sorting his mail. What to do on a Friday night. Not how to settle down for the rest of his life. Another bill. He put it in the steadily growing pile. There was no denying, though, that Mac was hot. And if her unpredictable temper was any indication of other things, well, it could be a hell of a ride. He threw a piece of junk mail in the bin. But still, it was Mac. Mac. People saw him as an emotional moron, but he wasn't that much of a clueless idiot. He knew she was the one person who was more than a match for him in every way. The one woman he couldn't screw around with, couldn't live without. He added the upteenth bill to the pile. The one woman he needed in his life. The woman he knew would take him up on his offer, if he ever offered. He shook his head as he discarded four more pieces of junk mail. What a waste of paper. And what the hell was wrong with him? It was Friday night and he was sorting mail. This was not how he pictured himself twenty years ago.

Twenty years ago. The good days. Where life loomed over the horizon like a glorious sunrise at the ocean's end. Where possibilities were endless and opportunities were his for the taking. Where he was going to soar through the sky on Tomcats and make his dad proud. He had a plan. A vague plan, but a plan nonetheless. He would fly Tomcats, serve on a carrier, be promoted to Captain. Be a CAG and then see where he could go from there. There was no mention in his plans of being land-locked for so long, of being a paper-pusher. A lawyer. Yes, the job did get him his fair share of adventure, but still. Verbal loops were not the same as aerial loops. Shooting down an argument was not the same as shooting down an enemy jet. The rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns was not the same as that of a gavel. He was supposed to feel the wind through his hair, metaphorically since a helmet and steel and glass did make a slight barrier. But still.

Just as importantly, he was supposed to live the fighter pilot life. Have a girl in each port. Or at least have the option of having a girl in each port. Explore the persona of the jet jock to its fullest. Live the life and fatten up, metaphorically again, on the privileges of being heroic and brave. None of this pining over one woman for so long. Definitely not. He was supposed to love women, all of them, for having those qualities so special and enjoyable that only women had. Not just love one Sarah Mackenzie because she had the qualities that were oh-so special and he could only guess enjoyable that only Sarah Mackenzie had. What had happened to him in those fifteen years.

Rewind, Rabb. He told himself to be honest. He enjoyed being a Naval attorney. He still got to fly. He liked where he worked, he liked his CO and was friends with his coworkers. Especially one coworker. Maybe it wasn't the same as being a fighter pilot - he heaved a heavy sigh at the obviousness of that statement - but he couldn't complain. Too much. Enough of the self-pity. It's Friday night. He was going to go out. Where though? He still hadn't come up with any good ideas. Maybe he would call Mac and ask her if she wanted to grab a bite. No dancing, though. He may not have pictured himself pining over one girl twenty years ago, but he most definitely did not picture himself as settling down with one girl either.

Harm was about to pick up the phone when he remembered that Mac was not currently at her most charitable towards him. He had said something pretty stupid that afternoon and she would need a couple of days at least to cool down and forgive him. And he still needed a day at least to convince himself that he should apologize to her. Well, maybe two days. No point in her having him at her complete mercy. He had to preserve some dignity, if only for the sake of his brothers who still flew the blue skies and lived the jet-jock life. As Mac would say, Semper Fi.

That narrowed his options for Friday night fun. He could go solo. But he wasn't in the mood. Wasn't there some Shakespeare in the park tonight? Whoa, Rabb. Slow down. No need to be that pathetic. What else? He tapped his finger against the kitchen counter and eyed the pile of mail still awaiting his attention. No way. He got up. He would just have to get out of the loft and see if inspiration struck.

Harm walked to his front door, picked up his jacket and debated the merits of a scarf before berating himself for being an aged pansy. Next he would end up buying sweater vests and a monocle. He pulled his door open and was shocked to be on the receiving end of a full-fledged Sarah Mackenzie glare. Pleasantly shocked.

"Mac?" he remembered how once years ago he had imagined her in the oddest of places. Well, he still imagined her in the oddest of places but those now counted as fantasies. "What are you-"

He stopped mid-sentence as Mac sailed past him and into his apartment. He turned and watched, fascinated, as she paced back and forth through his living room/dining room muttering something under her breath - he thought he caught a few snippets that sounded like "the nerve," "thinks he can," "stand for it," and several words that would make his grandma blush - with her arms crossed over her chest, her brow creased in frustration.

The merits of interrupting her involved and somewhat silent rant were duly debated in his head and discarded. Perhaps silence was the greater part of valor in this case. Besides, watching an angry Mac pace back and forth, her face slightly flushed, her hair a bit mussed, her eyes flashing, was much too entertaining to miss out on. So he sat down on a barstool by his kitchen counter.

The show ended too soon for his liking when Mac turned on him and said two words: "You ass."

Unexpected.

"Don't frown at me, Harmon Rabb. Or should I say: Harmon Rabb, you ass."

He did not know quite how to respond. So he decided to wing it.

"Umm..."

She waited for him to continue but nothing came out.

He saw her frown and the anger deepen. Winging it was a bad idea. Next time he would force his lips shut. No, next time he would carry around flash cards with little cues on What To Say When Sarah Mackenzie Verbally Attacks You Into Silence.

"You know, Rabb, you say the _stupidest_, the absolute dumbest, most idiotic, insensitive," alright already. He got the point. She could stop now, "ridiculous, unthinking," or she could just go on, "incredibly moronic things EVER." She paused for a breath and he admired the flushed tone of her skin, the colour in her cheeks, the slight heave of her chest.

He looked quickly to her face and was relieved to note that she didn't notice his inattention; she was too busy once again muttering under her breath and pacing. Thank goodness. Now was not the time to fuel the flames of her anger. At least not after he had provided accelerant and fuel and, well, oxygen that afternoon. And a match. A very big match. But honestly, didn't she expect that from him by now? After all this time, if she thought he would suddenly develop a golden tongue when it came to her...His automatic blame-displacement mechanism paused at that thought. What was it about her that made him say stupid things in the first place? He'd been through law school (he had the framed degree somewhere). He was a skilled litigator (he had commendations to prove it). He could talk a jury into believing the sky was green and slugs liked peach trifle. So why the verbal diarrhea whenever she happened to be in the conversation? He studied her more closely as she continued her harried pacing around his apartment, wearing down his floorboards and his defences. No denying she was different from any woman he had ever met. Most would humour him, smile and giggle and flirt shamelessly. That was to be expected given his charm and good looks. He sat a little straighter at the thought - no point in denying he had used his charms on more than one occasion. Few would engage him in some conversation, mostly in order to put a hand on his arm or chest and he would more than comply by offering them his famous smile. Fewer still would engage in meaningful conversation and tease. Only one had pinned his ass on a target range and opened fire with her expert marksmanship. Talk about an adrenaline rush. He would sometimes goad her, he was big enough to admit it, just to see how she would react. And wow did she react.

He sighed without even realizing it. The problem with all of that was that she had also uncovered a part of him he had never ever dreamed he owned. Had mocked in friends and acquaintances. Had ridiculed in strangers. He had been absolutely floored when the sweet, lovable, rakish, devastatingly handsome, devil-may-care, footloose and fancy free rogue that had inhabited his body for thirty-odd years had been invaded by a green-eyed, possessive, irrational, blathering - what was the word she just used? - ass. Positively floored. His twenty-year old self was probably mocking him from some dimly-lit bar in a distant port, surrounded by beautiful women.

The beautiful woman in his living room stopped suddenly and whipped to face him. Her finger now zeroed in on his nose. He raised his eyebrows and fought to keep from raising his hands defensively. At least she was across the room.

"And all these years, I" now she jabbed her finger into her collarbone, "just _took_," another forceful jab to her collarbone, "it. And I," jab, "still just _take_," jab, "it. After all this time!"

He was busy admiring her collarbone. In his defence, she was sort of pointing at it. He lost his unhindered view when she began pacing and he chose to watch all of her instead of just one very appealing part.

Wasn't she overreacting just a tad? What was it he had said that afternoon? He trudged the murky bottom of his memory, drifted through the heaps of useless details accumulated during the day to try and dig up his exact words. Let's see.

He had been in the break room digging through the fridge for his lunch. An absolutely delicious tofu stir fry that was left over from dinner. He had added mushroom soy instead of the plain stuff and this fantastic chili sauce he had discovered in a local gourmet grocery store. Too bad it was all over now. Mac would have enjoyed it. If he maybe added some slices of beef. Or a pig. Speaking of Mac, where was he? Right. In the break room, digging around the fridge. Mac had stormed into the room then with all the velocity and steam of a careening locomotive, effectively halting his search for lunch.

Instead, he had watched as she fiercely pulled cupboard doors open and grabbed various packages of chemical- and sugar-loaded confectionary goods before throwing them back in with a grumble.

"Everything alright?"

No answer.

He had decided that it was best to leave her to her own devices and let her indignation fizzle out. He had glanced into the fridge then and his eyes miraculously had fallen on his lunch. Perfect: a meal and a show.

He had been munching on that incredible stir fry - he really had outdone himself - when Mac, halfway through ravaging the poor plastic wrapping that housed a twinkie, had seemed to realize that she was not alone in the room.

"Oh!" Disgust had ridden the coattails of surprise, "you are here." He remembered not appreciating the emphasis she had put on the 'you'. What had he done wrong? Nothing by his accurate recollection.

"Afternoon."

He would have sworn that she had growled. He had reverted to the safety of silence.

A silence which lasted less than sixty seconds by his inaccurate count.

"Where's a cookie when you bloody need it?"

It was unfair that she had asked him a question he could not possibly answer without increasing her ire. Well, he figured, in for a penny in for a pound. He would attempt some levity.

"Red light, Colonel."

And then she had turned on him in full battle mode. He had actually recoiled. A grown man, well-built and over six feet tall, he had recoiled at the look on her face. His brain had debated on whether he felt afraid or turned on before settling on a bit of both. Maybe more of the latter.

She had rolled her eyes and he had wished for a Kevlar vest.

"You're all the same!" she had stopped to take a deep breath and he had seen his chance to step in before she embarked on what would no doubt be a very long and painful rant.

"What did I do?" Stupid thing to say, really. He should have at least tacked on a 'today'. Preferably a 'this last hour'. Or maybe just kept his mouth shut.

"My car got towed. I go pick it up from the backwoods of Bastardville. I ask the attendant one question, one," she had raised her index finger, just in case he couldn't grasp the concept of 'one', "question about the pricing. And all of a sudden that's an invitation for a quickie in the jerk's supply closet."

Someone had propositioned Mac. How had she expected him not to laugh at that? Unrealistic expectations are not healthy in a relationship.

"Laugh it up," the tone of her voice had alerted him that she had not actually been encouraging him to laugh. The look on her face had alerted that never ever laughing again might be a wise choice.

"You were in uniform?" He had stupidly thought that words might keep laughter from escaping through idle lips.

She had nodded vehemently. "Bastard said it would be kinky. He'd never 'had a uniformed broad go down on him'."

So much for not laughing. In his defence, he had been picturing her giving the attendant a solid uppercut to the solar plexus accompanied by an enthusiastic knee to his unmentionables.

He had cracked open an eye in the midst of torrential guffaws and seen that she was seething. But it had been much too late to reign it in. He had still put in a valiant effort, though not a very successful one.

"I'll stop, I'll stop." Eight deep breaths later he had brought himself under some modicum of control.

"Not funny, Rabb. What was he thinking?"

That was the point where his mouth had gotten ahead of his brain. "Well, the way you fill out a uniform, it's no small surprise this hasn't happened more often."

They had both stood still as the words wheezed and whittled between them. She had seemingly been paralyzed by pure, unadultered shock while he had been frozen in place by absolute, undiluted horror. He had only been trying to pay her a complement. Or tease her. Or something, he couldn't remember anymore. But his intention was nowhere near as offensive as his words.

She had pointed her finger at him, had jabbed it ineffectively a couple of times in his direction. Her lips had moved but no words came out. And then she had abruptly turned on her heels and left, leaving the cupboards haphazardly open with their contents regurgitated on the counters.

His thoughts were pulled back to the present by the words which launched from her tongue like finely aimed torpedoes, "Well no more, Rabb." Now she was a few paces away from him, standing very still with her arms crossed and her chin raised in defiance. "I won't just take it. You were an ass. An insensitive ass. So there."

He thought yet again how lovely she looked when she was this angry. Maybe his whole mouth saying stupid things was an instinctive mechanism that kicked in to spur these angry moods of hers and make him the bait in her fiery verbal duels. Kind of like Spidy's sixth sense. Or maybe an addict's search for his next fix would be a more appropriate analogy. Or maybe Mac was very astute and he was just an insensitive ass. Of course, sometimes it backfired and she would just ignore him for a few days or send hurt looks when she thought he wasn't looking. As though there was ever a time when he wasn't looking. Then he definitely felt like an ass. A two-inch tall ass.

This time, though, she didn't look hurt. No, this time he was the lucky bastard who was getting yelled at by Sarah Mackenzie. A grin threatened to break. She must have noticed because the defiance in her stance went up a notch.

"Something to say, Rabb?"

"You're beautiful when you're angry."

The oddest feeling of deja vu tickled the base of his neck. This was just like in the break room earlier that day: they were both paralyzed. Her by shock and him by horror, although this time he had the presence of mind to pause and wish he had a camera so he could take a picture of the look on Mac's face. What in god's name was he going to do with that mouth of his?

Also, this time, she did not turn on her heel and leave. Instead, her arms dropped by her sides and her eyes searched the room trying to find a crack through which to shoo out the awkwardness that was holding her tongue hostage.

They both spoke at the same time, though not intelligently, "ummm..."

They both laughed nervously. She was still too busy mounting her attack on awkwardness to look at him. He could not look anywhere but at her.

Harm remembered his earlier dilemma: how to spend his Friday night. Well, now Mac was actually in his apartment. In civvies. Looking, as he had just stupidly told her, beautiful. He pictured his twenty-year old self weighing in on the current situation. But wait. Twenty-year old self be damned! So what if he wasn't at his most suave and charming around Mac. So what if making a move on her probably meant the last first move for the rest of his life. So what if he didn't have girls in ports or ports in which to find girls. So what if he was a paper-pushing attorney, a desk jockey. Big freakin' deal. He was now a mature Harmon Rabb Jr. Mature, not old. And he had aged well. He could still get any woman he wanted with that killer grin of his. So what if he only wanted one woman, if he only ever wanted to give that grin to one woman - who conveniently enough happened to be standing in his apartment. Did Harmon Rabb Jr ever back down in the face of a challenge? No, he most certainly did not. Twenty-year old Harmon Rabb Jr was a different man. And not-quite forty-year old Harmon Rabb Jr was going to stop living the life of Twenty-year old Harmon Rabb Jr.

Harm got up from his stool and watched in amusement as Mac took a hesitant step back. Maybe his thoughts were apparent on his face. He could see the question vying to escape her lips as clearly as he could see the hesitancy blocking its route. He took a step toward her and she took another one back. They repeated the dance until she found her back pressed to his front door and he stood a few paces away. He could see her debate the merits of turning the knob and hightailing it. He knew she wouldn't do it. She wanted to hear the answer as much as he wanted to say it. He would show twenty-year old Harmon Rabb Jr a thing or two about real women. Starting and ending with the woman in front of him. He flashed her his full-fledged, trademark grin and was slightly dismayed to see her confusion deepen. Minor setback. It wasn't as though his killer grin had unfailingly worked on her before. Time for some honeyed words.

He took another step towards her and this time, she could not back away. "I'm sorry for what I said in the break room," he put on his best apologetic look and took another step. "The words came out wrong." He gave her the slightly sheepish look he knew she found endearing. Another step. "Just now," he vaguely waived his hand behind him, "I really meant it." Another step. "In the break room," he gave a slight shrug, "that really came out wrong." Another step. "I meant to say you're amazing. In every way." Another step brought him an arm's length away from her. "I'm surprised you don't have to fight off lotharios and pursuers armed with flowers and chocolate and what not every moment of every day." Another step. "Instead, I say the stupidest things around you, to you." One last step and he was toe to toe with her. "I think I finally figured out why."

He studied her in the dim light of his apartment. She had her right arm bent slightly behind her and on the doorknob. Her other arm was bent upwards, palm open by her shoulder. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes wide and focused on his. She sounded a bit breathless and he fancied it was because of his proximity. And was she actually blushing? All in all, he congratulated himself, everything about the way she stood screamed surprise and confusion and just a little anticipation. Good, she was off kilter. He had just verbally charmed Sarah Mackenzie into silence. Twenty-year old Harmon Rabb Jr. would be proud.

He placed his right hand in her left one, pressing it slightly into the door. His other hand went to her waist. He felt her fingers leave the doorknob and rest on the cuff of his sleeve, as though debating whether to permit him this touch.

"Because you, Sarah," he allowed himself the hint of a smile and was pleased when he saw a corresponding glimmer in her eyes, "You have a way," he leaned in towards her until their bodies were not quite touching and brushed his cheek against hers. He felt, more than saw, her close her eyes. "Of making me forget myself," he kissed the corner of her jaw and felt her breath hitch. "Because all I can see," he kissed each of her closed eyelids and heard her sigh. "All I can feel," he leaned his forehead against hers and memorized the look of rapt contentment on her face. "Is you."

Her eyes opened slowly, the same look of surprise and anticipation was now tempered with disbelief and laced with pleasure. He gave her a gentler version of his famous smile, no point in overwhelming her now. She still looked slightly hesitant and very surprised. So he leaned in and softly kissed her. Her response was tentative, an enticing exploration and a sweet confirmation. Wow. That was the first, eloquent thought to enter his mind. The second was that she tasted absolutely incredible, had he really forgotten? Like, he deepened the kiss slightly to verify - yes, like a summer meadow. And, wait was that, he angled his head a bit to find that essence again. Autumn rain. Mmm. And one more thing. He almost had it, his hand left hers and he laced his fingers through the soft hair at her nape, that's it. So close. She tasted like, he pulled her closer still, felt her hands fall helplessly to his chest, like - oh, god - like the moon shining off an impossibly deep ocean. He pulled back triumphantly, and now it was his turn to be breathless, thinking that he could live off of the taste of her. Hell, he'd willingly forgo food and drink and that other stuff that kept people alive - what was it called - right, oxygen. He'd breath her instead.

He fought to get his eyes back into focus, a surprisingly difficult task, and was rewarded with the sight of her, face flushed, lips soft and moist, breath still uneven. She was leaning heavily against the door and her hands were on his shoulders, for support, he decided. That was after all one hell of a kiss. Her eyes were warm and full of him.

She smiled, a smile saturated with tenderness and mischief, and he had to remind his heart that its primary job was to beat for him, and not to beat only for her. "And all this time I thought you were just an ass."

He couldn't help his laughter, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

The End


End file.
